


Vices

by HaephestusCrex



Category: Being Human (UK), Lucifer (TV), The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries & Related Fandoms, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi, Other, crap summary that will probably get rewritten, dreadfully AU, requires some knowledge of BH UK and The Originals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 10:57:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15906891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaephestusCrex/pseuds/HaephestusCrex
Summary: For centuries two strains of Vampirism have existed, ignorant of each other for most the part. One predates the other, and eventually the desperate, ever-thirsting need for dominance rises, and you're the one-thousand-and-something attempt that Mr Snow, the oldest living vampire to date, has attempted to make an heir. Unfortunately, getting entangled with another Old One, taking the mantle of Heiress and bringing the two worlds together was not on the game plan.The Originals of New Orleans are forced to reckon with a new power, one with no reflection, pitch-black eyes and a much heavier penchant for bloodbaths than the standard fare of vampires in this city."My God woman - what did you do...?"It's enough that it brings Mikael knocking, and the Mikaelsons are left with a whole new set of problems.[[Being Human UK crossover with The Originals, and elements of Lucifer Fem!Reader/Niklaus/Edgar W./Many]]





	Vices

**Author's Note:**

> ((Short af prologue, longer chapters))

**~Prologue~**

 

 _England, Evesham - Cotswolds, 2011._  

 

The sensation of lips cracking actually hurt, there’s no point in screaming – nobody could hear you, not a living thing for miles, you’re certain. The air is thick and musky, breathing is arduous because every draw of oxygen feels like it’s making the atmosphere thicker.

 

“The years I've wasted on you! You have the blood of emperors! Pharaohs - you should be one step down from divinity but instead you are _pathetic,_ " the stinging words of Mr Snow echoed above you, each barb more searing than the last.

 

There isn’t much left, there wasn’t even much to work with. There were roughly 886 litres of air in the small space you’re trapped in, discounting the sixty-something your body takes up, that’s even less, then the fact only one fifth of it is oxygen. The average human breathes in about 0.5 but with the panicking, you’d say you had about four hours, tops – before suffocating.

 

“I give you everything, every opportunity you could possibly want for, and you give me nothing!” Mr Snow’s cool, gravelly voice was snarling at you now, you could imagine every black vein pulsing with anger beneath his skin, like a roadmap.

 

“Tell me, where is the return on my sixteen-year investment?” a hard tapping noise follows, unsettling all the dust and causing you to cough violently, using up more air. He’s tapping his foot above you, is probably standing on top of you, oozing impatience.

 

“I’m sorry I just….  I need more time!” you had spent your entire life trying to be the thing that he wanted, but it’s so hard, when you don’t actually know what that is. You did well in your classes – too well – considering, Mr Snow had long since taught the importance of acknowledging one’s station in life, and where humanity fit within the ancient machine. Right now, you were below the vampires, humanity was their feeding bowl, their dirt-lined trough, if you ever wanted to rise above it – you would have to prove yourself by your 25th birthday, on a Day of Judgement, to none other than Mr Snow himself.

 

“More time?” the tapping got more impatient, emphasising how small the space you were in truly was. “If only we should be so lucky.”

 

Mr Snow bore a sharp-toothed smile, though you couldn’t see it.

 

“Perhaps your time in bed will help you understand the direness of the time constraint you’re in,” he paused, and gave a low, almost jaunty sort of whistle above you.

 

“Happy Birthday, dear,” before leaving you in a shallow grave, in a red-lined coffin in the middle of the Cotswolds, not to be heard by a single living soul.


End file.
